


Must Be Burglary

by bible



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Facials, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Coercion, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 23:31:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16586378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: Fulfilled Ko-fi request.





	Must Be Burglary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waughisme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waughisme/gifts).



                “I adore you. Tell him if you must, I no longer care. I mean to have you even if it must be burglary.”

                Now wasn’t that some gooey shit that certainly stank. Marwood stared with his big fucking eyes at this big fucking man and felt those words more than heard them, and they kind of slicked up his spine with this sticky, shiver-inducing residue. He gave a little shake, his heart stuttering in his chest as if it was full of black coffee. He jammed his body as far into the room’s corner as it could go, feeling very large and small at once. Too large to scurry away beneath the bed and out the door shrieking at the top of his lungs, like that squealing little rat he’d seen earlier and thought about scraping the meat out of. And too small and pathetic and helpless under Monty’s bleached, sweating brow. That scrutinizing stare of his was wet and full of intentions of all sorts of grossness that even Marwood thought unhygienic.

                Oh, yes. He’d heard of these romantic, artistic types of pathetic homosexuals. These _must-have-boys_ types who cite the ancient Grecians and their pottery and their sculptures and shit as evidence for their pederasty! As if art had _any_ merit at all. There was no feeling involved. As long as some ancient culture said it was okay, then it must be!

                Marwood tried to articulate that—no, he did not want this, no thank you—but the man seemed to take his babbling as being flustered. He felt his cherubic hips grabbed and the blood beneath his skin went cold. _My body is killing itself_ , he thought with a grit smile, his eyes crinkled at the corners. That endless forced charm he was making himself put out. A byproduct of the endless cycle of acting. He felt a strange burst of pride at this.

                _I am so fucking convincing, aren’t I? Where’s my next role?_ Just look how he’d managed to make this pitiful lovestruck man believe he was his one and only valentine. He pressed his sweating palms to the wall, felt the mothballed wallpaper coolly scratch back at them. There was no comfort here. _I’m his firm, young carrot,_ thought Marwood hysterically, wondering if he could duck beneath Monty’s arm and make his way to Withnail, whose embrace, infinitely intoxicated and unpleasantly aromatic, would be far more comforting than this ice-cold room full of nothing but sexual tension and the thump-thumping of his chest. His sternum was going to split like expensive porcelain at this rate.

                He realized he’d been standing there, silent, panicky, with that stretched smile firmly upon his face, his eyes humorless and wide, pupils tiny pinpricks swimming in the whole of his viscera. He must have looked like he had PTSD or something, but Monty, always unperceptive, always eager to be deceived into what the brain wanted, only took this as acceptance.

                It was very hard to speak and it was very hard to stay silent, so when Monty put his arms around poor Marwood, he produced a noise he’d later deny making and Monty took this as a noise of great pleasure. Kind of made Marwood’s dick shrink back into his body.

                His arms were large and warm and entrapping, and didn’t feel much like an assault at all. Their hooked connection at the small of his back was almost off-putting. He felt his chest give a strong thud of displeasure and finally, he found the capability to speak English again.

                “Now, now, now, look here, ‘right?” said Marwood frantically, as Monty manipulated him onto the bed still warm from his anxiety-sweat when he was faking asleep. He wanted to burn the sheets, the bed, himself. “Look, you acid-head goon. This doesn’t mean a bloody thing. This means nothing.”

                “My heart soars for you, my dear boy.”

                “Oh, fucking shit,” said Marwood with a wrinkled nose, kicking away the sheets with his bare feet that very much still wanted to run, “Listen—cut the romantic shit. I don’t want anything but to be left alone, see, but I know you’re not about to grant me that very small, excellent relief.”

                “You’re a star. You don’t know how much I worship you. I’d kneel at your pulpit all day and kiss the bottom of your boots.”

                “I think I’d find myself kicking you in the face if you did,” he huffed, and refused to touch the hefting body that was working its robe open. If he just stared at the ceiling, directed his vision anywhere but the very HULKING PINK SWEATY TRUTH in front of him, maybe he could repress it for good. Well, his thigh was grabbed and jerked around Monty’s substantial hips and Marwood grimaced, looking at his face that was pinpricked with sweat. “Can’t you stop eyeing me like meat? God, treat me like a tart, not your wife.”

                “Oh, I could never. You’re the world’s most precious flower.”

                “I thought you were a veggie type,” said Peter with a snideness that turned his voice nasally.

                “I am,” said Monty, and on that note, his sweating, feverish palm groped at Marwood’s briefs, fondling at his dick.

                “Hey!” he cried out, as if this was totally unexpected. As if this was not the ultimate goal. He pushed at the meaty forearm as his dick practically declared its newfound forever-impotence right in his pants. But he loosened his grip, all resolve drained from him.

                His cock was fished out of his briefs, his hipbones prickling with goosebumps. The wave of chilliness didn’t do much to stifle his nausea. But he let his flaccid dick come out, and if the softness of it didn’t indicate his disinterest, his hitched brows beneath his crown of curly hair certainly did.

                “My angel, you look so stunning,” said Monty, things like that, petting at his cock and on and on it went. And on.

                 On went Monty’s rhapsodizing, calling him some sort of incubus, and his lips went to Marwood’s mouth. Marwood made a noise of disapproval and turned his face away, the taste of coffee and nicotine upon his tongue making him jolt with disgust, and the wet lips that continued to spout some sort of biblical dialogue about all things romantic traveled down the nape of Marwood’s neck, down his chest, his facial hair brushing uncomfortable and wet against his nipple. His toes curled in either disgust or oversensitization, and he sealed his eyes shut tight. A bite at his ribs, a lick at his side. He felt tortured, almost ticklish.

                “Why won’t you look me in the eyes?” crooned Monty against his hipbones.

                “Because you’re a right ugly bastard.”

                All penchants for niceties were gone, because here he was, giving him what he wanted. To break his heart was hardly a penalty when his legs were being pushed back and his cheeks parted for Monty to make his slimy way towards his arsehole. Marwood threw a hand over his face in disgust and placed his feet upon his shoulders, pushing him back without much might.

                It was an effortless gesture. He did his best to replace Monty with Withnail in his mind, but couldn’t summon the thought of Withnail with a blonde, sweaty mustache scraping against his asshole. He clenched, and unclenched, and Monty said something about relaxation that didn’t reach his swimming brain and which only made him tense up more. A fat finger prodded at his warm, tight hole and he produced a groan.

                An image came behind his eyes. _I FUCK ARSES_. Carved into the wall.

                He wished he’d had more wine. He sat up then, looked at the swine between his legs, and dreamed of his trash apartment with its full sink, with its garbage littering the furnishings, and laid back down with a high-pitched whine on the bed, longing for London and for Withnail and for the light of a day that would not again look upon him, splayed in bed, whining for a pig.

                That finger probed him, then pulled out. His asshole burned with the sensation and he knew he wasn’t about to let anything besides a tongue in him tonight. A spasm shook his body.

                He suddenly seized Monty with both hands and began chattering at him with the schizophrenic monologue of his high-self, manic and preachy and ever unsober, his voice wheedling: “You’re fucking up my brain, you know? I’ve got something settling up in my noggin, and it’s gonna take a lot to get it out. You know I’ll feel all shuddery and crazy for the rest of my life. My skin will be raked with shivers upon sight of every flamboyant fatty I ever lay my eyes on. Oh, it’s a good thing I’ve got a bright mind—polished in, uh… Oh, I don’t know. Wherever I studied—it _steeled_ me for this kind of thing. It’s a good thing I’m ultra-intelligent and it’s a good thing I have a drug dealer, because every time I shit now I’ll think of you.”

                Monty’s eyes sparkled like well-water, that beady gaze set on him from beyond the horizon of Marwood’s very soft penis. Marwood felt a rush of satisfaction at having potentially hurt him. But Monty said, instead, perpetually soft, “And I thought you weren’t going to wax poetic, dear boy.”

                Marwood groaned and back flopped onto the bed, propped upon his elbows, his dick still soft and laying against his stomach, his handsome legs splayed. He pushed Monty’s head down and sealed his eyes shut, rubbing his lower half against Monty’s face. “Eat me. Eat me like you eat everything else in sight.”

                Well. Might as well make it feel good. And Monty did. His tongued delved between his cheeks again, poked at the furled asshole that was finally starting to untense, his hands pressing on either side of it as his tongue lapped at it with deliberately ‘gentle’ (see: excruciatingly slow) strokes. Marwood’s body ached from how it was arched like a bow, lifting up, too scared to relax. If he was to relax and melt into the touch, he might look like he was enjoying it.

                His asshole gave a twitch and then was softened and pried open with gentle, seeking fingers, that tongue delving into him, a warm slice of pleasure that sort of licked up his spine and grew warm there. It was held open by either thumb, and kissed once, as if on the mouth. Marwood almost shrieked.

                “It’s a God-given fact that I’m gonna lose my mind. You know, I think I’m drunk. That’s why I’ve let this happen. You know, I even think—get this,” he leaned over to whisper to Monty as if this information was classified, as if it was not evident to everyone who’d ever met him, “I think I might have a drinking problem. So it’s alright that you’re here, licking my bum like it’s a lollipop. Because I won’t even remember it.”

                Monty did not seem fazed by this poisonous admission, and he reared up on his knees, the bed creaking under his weight. He looked down on Marwood, who was smeared in the angelic candlelight, flickering in an image as if cast in amber. He was like an angel to him, a cherub with that halo of curls, with those sleepy, bruised eyes, pink-rimmed and full of what he misinterpreted as intense lust, but was really a disgust so foul he might as well be looking upon a pile of cowshit.

                “You are a star. A model. An ethereal creature upon which I’d lay my head. Your heart is purer than all the saints of the world. I’d die for you.”

                Marwood would do cocaine off a toilet seat if he could and lived in a shared bathtub, and once went two weeks without a bar of soap.

                But sure. Garbage angel over here laughed at him, his teeth glinting in the chai-colored light. Monty almost _wept_ at the sight. Monty’s mouth was shiny with spit.

                Both knees on either side of Marwood’s stomach, he held his dick beneath his fat belly and fondled it. Marwood thought he might direct a PSA against predators soon. Model it after this image.

                Monty’s breath was asthmatic and rattling, his face was wet with sweat and his thin hair was sticking up in mad angles. Marwood’s nose wrinkled. “My baby, mine, my boy,” he touched his stiff, red sick, which was drooling a steady stream of pre-cum which collected in a small pool on Marwood’s sunken stomach. The wet slap-slap-slap of his hand on his dick resounded in the room. Marwood was suddenly fearful that this masturbatory noise would wake Withnail more than any other noise that had happened. Deep shame crawled over his face, a flush bleeding upon his skin. If he was to see his uncle here, kneeling over his closest friend, jerking off with the head of his chode pointed at his face—well, Marwood would grab that rifle of his and stick a bullet in his head.

Monty was a quick shot—a streak of greyish cum striped Marwood’s nose and cheek. His eye. He closed it, his face a facsimile of both a wink and grimace. Then he _tasted_ it. But he hadn’t remembered opening his mouth. It had seeped through his teeth.

Right.

                He had been maintaining that stretched smile the entire time.

**Author's Note:**

> this was a ko-fi fulfillment for waughisme! thanks so much for supporting my greasy ass and for introducing me to such a good film. i hope you enjoyed!
> 
> [request/tipping info](https://bibles.carrd.co/#)


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